Strange Neighbors (21 page)

   "Jason?"

   "Yeah?"

   "Can I sleep with you tonight?"

   His grin lit up his whole face. "I'd love that."

Today was the day everyone would gather in Chad's apartment to talk to him about the conspiracy. Yes, the whole building had been included—except Sly. The Falcos still didn't know he "lived" in their basement. They must not—since Dottie hadn't had a major spaz in a while.

   Speaking of the devil's daughter, she's waiting impatiently with the detective, glancing around the candlelit room, as if I'm going to materialize in front of her. Like I would if I could. I'd rather appear to those less prone to fainting.

   Chad remembered the old TV show, Columbo, and thought Detective Joe Murphy, sitting at the head of the table, facing the door, looked like a modern-day version of Peter Falk in the starring role—but without the trench coat, or the lazy eye, or the mop of… okay, he looks nothing like him.

   Yeah, he'd seen the TV show. Nathan used to watch it all the time. They both identified with his whole "crazy like a fox" routine. As a matter of fact, he still let Chad watch crime dramas with him. Chad decided that Joe looked more like the guy with the cockatoo on his shoulder… Beretta.

   Nathan wasn't watching much TV these days. During decent weather, he spent more time outdoors, soaring above the earth. I think he prefers being a bird—an animagus raven.

   Chad imagined it must be a peaceful feeling and envied the freedom he could experience all the time if it were possible. Nathan was only able to shift for about two hours, tops, but was working on lengthening his "free as a bird" time. Everyone needed a hobby. After a hard day at the morgue, he appreciated the break.

   He talked to Chad sometimes. Nathan couldn't hear him, but he could see him. So Chad would nod and point to what he wanted. Sometimes it was like playing a game of charades.

   I wish I could feel that free. Well, I can, sort of. Having no body, no bills, and no boss kicks ass. Of course, sometimes it was boring as hell. Probably more boring than hell, actually. If there is a hell. For all Chad knew, this was his hell. He'd been trapped in this building for over half a century, and for all that time, all he could do for entertainment was get his kicks vicariously.

   Now that he'd learned a few tricks—like telepathic communication and moving objects with his mind— things were a little better. The séance was the most communication he'd had with the living for a long time.

   Morgaine could hear him and Nathan could see him, but it was like hanging out with one person who's blind and another who's deaf—and no one else. I suppose it's better than nothing.

   I wonder what would happen if they got together? Morgaine and Nathan, I mean. Nah. They're way too different. They don't even like the same TV shows. Morgaine's into the reality shows. I swear they can make a TV show out of anything these days.

   And Nathan was into fictional dramas. He was even hooked on a couple of soap operas. If I let that slip, he'd kill me. Ha! Well, he can't do that, but I'm sure he'd probably stop watching them just to spite me. Then I'd never know what happened with Robert's amnesia and Bethany's secret baby. Can't have that.

   Finally, the rest of the participants started arriving. Merry and Jason had just stepped off the elevator. Morgaine and Gwyneth left their apartment and were crossing the hallway. Konrad and Nathan were walking up the stairs, making small talk. I overheard Dottie telling Joe that her husband, the super, opted out of the séance, preferring to "keep an eye on the building." Like it's going somewhere?

   Chad's theory about those who protested most about not believing in the supernatural were usually blustering out of fear of it. I might like to test that theory with the super sometime—or not. It sounded like fun, but he didn't need another convert to Dottie's oust the ghost movement.

   Everyone took their places around the table. Morgaine explained what they needed to do. Chad hoped the girl was up to the task. She was still having a hard time relinquishing control to him, but they'd only had a couple of practice sessions.

   "Now if everyone will hold hands and close your eyes…"

   As soon as the co-residents were linked and completely still, Morgaine did the deep pranic breathing required to clear her chakras and make room for Chad's energy—or some such crap. She tried to explain it to me in spiritual terms. Funny that I'm the spirit, and I still don't get how it works. All he knew was that it did. If everyone cooperated and didn't disrupt her concentration, they might be able to pull it off.

   Well, here goes nothin'. He eased into her, and she jerked ramrod straight. My energy must not be as flexible as I thought.

   "Chad, if you can speak now, the detec—"

   "Hello. Chad speaking."

   Dottie gasped as he channeled his voice through Morgaine. Well, what did she expect? That I'd sound exactly the same using Morgaine's larynx as I did using Shandra's?

   If he somehow figured out another way to do this, he'd try it. Sharing a body wasn't the most comfortable feeling in the world. I'd better nip her crazy reactions in the bud.

   "Shut your piehole, Dottie, and let me speak to the nice detective. If you open your trap once, I'm gone. Understand?"

   She scrunched her eyes shut and nodded.

   "So, Detective, do you mind if I call you Joe?" he said.

   Joe smirked. "Sure. If it's good enough for the Vice President, it's good enough for me."

   "Ah, a politically aware detective. Perfect! Because my murder had to do with politics—big time."

   Joe narrowed his eyes. "Tell me, Chad, who do you think killed you?"

   "What the hell? If I knew, I wouldn't need you, would I? Detective, with all due respect, that's why you're

here. To find out."

   He shrugged. "I just thought you might have some idea. You know… leads I could investigate."

   "Not really. I was minding my own business, typing the biggest article of my career for the Boston Telegraph, when two men in ski masks burst in. They didn't say a word. Just worked me over like professional hit men.

   "One of them yanked the paper out of my electric typewriter—we used those things back in the old days— and the next thing I knew, I heard a gunshot and everything faded to black. When I came to, the place was upended. Couch cushions unzipped and tossed, all of my books scattered on the floor, even the kitchen cabinets had been rifled through."

   "So, were you dead yet?"

   "Oh, yeah. Dead as a doornail. I didn't know it right away, though. I just felt dizzy and a little stunned."

   "When did you figure out you were dead, and what made you think you had been murdered?"

   "Well, Joe, when I reached for a book and scooped up nothing but air, I became alarmed and suspected that something might be wrong. I tried again, and noticed my hand traveled right through the books. Next, all of me traveled right through the couch, and I couldn't pick up the cushions. And as far as knowing that I had been murdered? Well, the bullet hole in my head seemed to suggest it."

   "So you could see yourself?"

   "I could see my body on the floor. I—the spirit or soul that is me—my essence—leaned over my twisted body and didn't really feel like crawling back in there, what with the blood pouring from that painful looking

hole and everything."

The detective nodded. "Understandable."

   Nathan piped up. "Good move. You probably would have been a vegetable, slumped over in a wheelchair, unable to feed yourself or wipe your own butt."

   "Yeah, thanks, man. I really needed that image."

   "So, who discovered your body?" the detective continued.

   "The police."

   "How long did it take them to show up?"

   "I don't see the relevance to this case."

   He shrugged again. "No relevance. I was just curious."

   "Great. I finally get a detective to take me seriously, and he wants to know how Boston's finest were performing in the sixties?" Jesus. Take a couple of deep breaths. Don't piss off the guy who's being paid to help you.

   Morgaine took the deep breaths for him and he continued.

   "So, what have you done so far to catch my killers?"

   "Catch them? This happened fifty years ago. I'd probably have to dig them up if I wanted to cuff 'em and bring them in. In case you didn't know what a cold case is, it's when the trail has gone cold, and this is the coldest case I've ever worked on."

   It was all Chad could do to hold his temper. Damn, I wish someone had a bong going. I'd float around in the smoke and hope for a contact high.

   Morgaine took another deep breath and Chad said, "Look, you asked for leads. Don't you want to know about the article I was writing?"

   "Sure, I was getting to that."

   "Yeah, after you racked up an extra hour to charge

Mr. Baseball."

Jason raised one eyebrow.

   Joe cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. "So, what was the article about?"

   "Like I said, a conspiracy. A big one. The Kennedy assassinations."

   "Yeah? You know who killed JFK?"

   I'm not falling for that one again. "Hey, I had a source. I already told baseball-boy all about it. Didn't he give you any information before now?"

   "Yes. But I wanted to hear it from you."

   "Fine. His name was Spider. We met in a parking garage downtown next to the X-rated movie theatre."

   The detective nodded. "I remember the place. It's a damn shame they tore it down. Nowadays, perverts without DVD players are out of luck."

   Oh, the things I could say to that…

   "So, do you have any other name for him besides 'Spider?' I doubt I'd find him in the nineteen-sixties Boston area phone books under that name."

   "No, but much later, a dude who looked like an older version of him claimed to have the same knowledge. His name was Dean Warner. The FBI negated his claims."

   Detective Murphy rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Yet, if the information was false, why were you killed?"

   "Exactly! Now you're getting it."

   Morgaine's head fell forward, and Chad realized she needed a break. He yanked himself out of her body and let her know she could rest, but he'd be back.

   "Something's wrong with her," Gwyneth cried.

   Konrad rose, scooped her up, and headed for the door. "Open the apartment door for me, Gwyneth. I'm taking her home. This shit-show is over, folks."

Lila hung back in the shadows. The chilly November air made a few minutes of espionage seem like hours. What was everyone doing in there? She had seen people walking upstairs, but the place was dark with the exception of one dimly lit window on the third floor.

   "There's something weird going on in there," she muttered to herself.

   "Back again, are we?"

   Startled, Lila jumped and felt as if her heart had lodged in her throat on the way down. "Who the…? Oh, it's you. Sylvestro, right?"

   "Call me Sly."

   "Okay, Sly," she said, feeling a little sly, herself. Maybe she could get some more information out of him and the evening wouldn't be a total waste. "How's Allison?"

   "Allison who?"

   "Give me a break," she said. "The woman we talked about last time I saw you."

   "Oh, I should apologize. It was a case of mistaken identity. As it turns out, her name isn't Allison after all. I'm sorry if I gave you misinformation."

   "Oh. Well, mistakes happen. I've since learned that her name is Merry. Is that right?"

   He didn't confirm or deny. He simply stood there, staring at her. Then he leaned forward and sniffed the air right in front of her.

   Lila stuffed her hands in her pockets and leaned away, trying not to let her teeth chatter. Something about him gave her pause. Last time, she didn't pick up any sinister vibes, but now… Maybe he knows about the article and is pissed—like everyone else who knows this sainted Merry seems to be.

   She'd have to try a different tactic. "So, do you know why the building is so dark? I think people are home. At least, while I was waiting for someone, I saw people come and go."

   "Who were you waiting for?"

   She waved away the question like it was no big deal. "Just an old friend. I thought I saw him last time I was here."

   "Last time you were skulking in the bushes?"

   She chuckled. "Well, okay. He's not exactly a friend. He's a friend of a friend. You know how that goes."

   Falco and I are both friends of the media-reading public, right. And if no publicity is bad publicity, he should thank me. When the baseball season starts up again, everyone will be watching to see what "bad boy Falco" is up to. Hey, cool. I should be able to spin it that way and get another credible story out of it.

   "And you thought you'd find this guy here? What's his name?"

   "Oh, I'd rather not say. You might alert him to the fact that I'm watching for him—for my friend—and I really don't want to bother him."

   "Why would I say anything? Are you stalking him for your friend or something?"

   She slapped her knee and laughed. "Ha! Stalking. That's funny."

   "You think stalking is funny?"